


Fears on their wings

by perryvic, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Series: Kill Tonight [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perryvic/pseuds/perryvic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It left him wondering if Jim had set him up, had maneuvered it all into place. He'd sent Seb there for dinner, with a carefully worded suggestion and a lazy gesture from his office of half-heartedly showing Seb the bottom of his shoe. "That was my unit. I'm Colonel Seb Moran. Well, or I was." He offered John Watson his hand, because it was safe and he still existed as a person and he should do things like that. Say hello. </p>
<p>Be a person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fears on their wings

Sherlock was, at the best of times, an unrepentant ass, with no ability to distinguish between a brief lull in the extremes of danger and actual boredom. Half the time, John was sure there was something diagnosable behind the outbursts, other than a brilliant mind and a particular childhood, something not quite sociopathy. Then again, the current state hadn’t become a one off wall shooting yet, but a series of staring at bad TV. 

It surprised John when Sherlock asked him “Do you know Colonel Moran, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?” and then watching as John tried to dig up which bloody OF-5 he was referring to. Or if it was even an OF-4, because he was sure the nuances of military rank was something that Sherlock might have discarded from his mind on one of his more frustrating days. He’d certainly forgotten how to ever go and get a new thing of milk from the grocer. 

"I wouldn't say know," he replied. John looked at the paper and then at Sherlock warily. "I'd heard of him. That sort of thing gets passed on."

“Officially, he was discharged after suffering a rather rousing bout of PTSD that led to the near-death of an Afghan National Police Captain.” Sherlock was balancing his knees on his elbows, peering at John with beetle hard eyes, his fingers tented in front of his face. “What was the real story?”

John grimaced a little. "Rumour had it that some of the men he had worked closely with had been killed by an IED set by someone they had been working with. They trusted. He... well, let’s just say in the Fusiliers he wasn't exactly considered to be the villain of the piece."

“No. No, I suppose he wouldn't be, would he? It's all about perspective." One of Sherlock's eyebrows arched up. "I have the suggestion of a lead. And I believe I would... I believe I could close the case very quickly on my own, but perhaps we could do it undetected if you were to pursue it instead. Under my supervision, of course." Not that it told John a single bloody thing of what was going on.

“Sherlock, whenever you send me off with that bloody laptop link things go, well, it generally doesn’t work out the way we expect does it?" he pointed out. "And I'm telling you, Moran is… his reputation as a sniper was practically legendary. You don't mess with snipers, unless you enjoy walking around wondering when your brains might explode."

"Yes, well -- it's funny you should mention that. Someone sniped a man who was walking down stairs to catch the tube. He's a petty criminal, and he was in a moving crowd -- so was he the target or not, Lestrade asks me. Was it chance, or purpose? We're supposed to go 'round to the building and take a look at his supposed firing point." That they hadn't already, and that Sherlock was talking to John meant that the met were already doing it wrong.

He sighed and put down the paper. "Okay, tell me how you have somehow leapt from a sniper attack to a petty criminal and then to Colonel Moran, and why we are not apparently visiting the scene... or is the scene too boring for you and that's where you want me to go with the webcam?"

"I read his book." There was a pause. "It's rather good, or perhaps his editor had an excellent grasp of appropriate pacing. It's about game-hunting, for sport, and at one point describes in lurid detail the intricacies of picking a target out of a moving herd, and why. It scatters the herd in confusion, and then lures in the bigger predators that one is actually interested in hunting. I believe, John, that we are being hunted."

He looked over at Sherlock, and could see the manic sort of energy that the other man got when he was in the middle of a case. "Oh for... us personally or was that the generic 'we'?" he asked, noting privately that Sherlock had suggested sending him out nonetheless.

"I am unsure." Which probably pained him to admit. "However, if you recall, Moriarty does have snipers in his employ." Or, he had men with laser pointers who wanted a good laugh in his employ. And it was honestly possible considering his experience with the man. "If you could go to the scene, we'll see if the case is worth my time."

"Sherlock, you are basically sending me out there into the crosshairs of a potential sniper," John replied wondering why he was still amazed. "You might be good, but seriously, you can't out think the speed of a bullet. Any sniper worth his salt, if they are looking for chaos, will be watching their previous site."

"Will they?" The feigning that it hadn't crossed his mind was the annoying part. He knew Sherlock well enough to read that particular inflection. "If you stay close to Lestrade, you'll be fine. After all, if we were the only targets, there are two windows there behind us that give ample range and angle."

"Jesus, Sherlock." He flinched almost automatically from the windows. "Okay, fine. What are you going to be doing while I'm out there risking delicate parts of my anatomy?"

"The best way to trap a tiger is to find it in a comfortable part of its territory, but not so close to its own den that it goes wild with rage at being cornered." Trapping a tiger, in... oh. "I'm looking for bars he might frequent while he's not otherwise occupied with a spotting scope."

"Fine, okay then. But if I get killed I don't want a sarcastic eulogy," John said getting up. "And something a little more than ‘John Watson, he was... adequate’."

"John Watson -- never had a chance to pick up milk or biscuits on the way back from the crime scene. And I think Mrs. Hudson needs some flour. You'll be fine." Once he gathered up Sherlock's laptop and did as he was told. The very idea of wandering into the path of some kind of deranged OF-5 was just chilling.

Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock really knew what it meant to be in a warzone. Still, it was that old shot of adrenalin, a possibility of danger and excitement. "Try not to spend too much time texting."

A snort was all he got in answer and probably would get until he reached the scene and set up for Sherlock. And honestly, for all Sherlock knew, the man had nothing at all to do with any of it. Bloke was probably having trouble settling back in, same as anyone did. If he hadn't had a constant reminder of what too much drinking looked like, John supposed he might've turned to it, too, past what was socially all right.

John was pulling out his phone to call Lestrade only to see the man's car pulling up outside in Baker Street. "Let me guess," he said as he grabbed his coat. "You told him I was coming before you told me."

"It was a reasonable assumption that you'd say yes." Another cock of his eyebrow, while he stood up from the chair and headed to the window to wave at Lestrade. "Moriarty enjoys the game more than the kill. You'll be fine." 

"Oh yes, the game of wrapping me up in explosives. How I enjoyed that. The man is a crazed nutjob Sherlock, and unpredictable and you know, Moran was a bad enough prospect without throwing Moriarty into the mix." He slipped the laptop under his arm and headed for the door. "You’re buying dinner later."

It might be the only concession he could get from Sherlock but he was going to stick with it.

"Fine." He might regret that, but he was sure Sherlock couldn't make dinner any more harrowing than being sent with a huge shiny reflective object to a sniper scene. He was glad, almost, to not see Mrs. Hudson on his way out the door. 

"John," Lestrade opened the door of the car for him. "I see Sherlock's got you doing his dirty work again." He nodded grimly, while Lestrade smiled and went around to his side. "Yeah, I'm not too cracked up about having either of you there, but someone like this might do it again."

"So, do I get to know any more than someone was shooting at petty criminals?" he asked as Lestrade started up and pulled out into traffic. "Sherlock seems to think I should pick up everything else."

"Osmosis, right?" Lestrade smirked. "Uh, guy as a small time fence. Six charges, all relatively clean. No prior history of violence. Had two regular associates he dealt with, one loser who went by Mack the knife." 

"Original huh?" John replied. "So no real reason he might have pissed off someone enough to get shot. Beaten up yes, but... shot in London? Pretty unusual."

"Shot while walking down a flight of stairs in the middle of a crowd, no less. I think the sniper made a mistake, and that we're going to waste a lot of time staring at this guy when it was some other guy completely. And we'll find him dead somewhere else." Or something. Yeah, John knew that feeling.

"Where was he hit?" He'd seen enough injuries to know if a sniper had been aiming somewhere and had missed. "Headshot?"

"Headshot. He got him from the left." And John wished Lestrade wouldn't make those gestures while he was driving. "Just back behind the ear. The angle was sharp, and the bullet exited his head and went into his shoulder, sort of. At least, that's what it looked like. He's in autopsy and someone can tell you better."

"That's not a miss then," John replied, frowning. "That's a hell of a shot. That's the angle of someone who wanted to kill just that person and not anyone around them. If it was mistaken identity then the sniper was told the wrong person. I've seen enough of it in Afghanistan to be pretty sure of that." That was knowledge he had experienced, he knew probably better than Sherlock.

"So. Where do you get a sniper that good, and why waste him on Fred Williams, two bit fence? Unless Fred got his nose somewhere he shouldn't have, and someone with that sort of reach wanted him quiet."

"That's military training, and someone who's that good... Can't be many around." No doubt Sherlock had worked that out almost immediately. "Could be a personal motive maybe?" It was strange, he had to admit that.

Discharged officers sat around and wrote books, or. Well, got boring jobs, or went back as contractors and got paid a good deal more money to shoot people as bodyguards. Hell, there were probably dictators on the Horn who'd pay him in live animals if he wanted it, to have a sniper that good on their side. "Might be. I'd say the man's got some investment, though. It's a big risk to take for such a little target."

"Unless they weren't particularly stable," he said cautiously. "Post-Traumatic stress. But yeah, Sounds about right. So you found the sniper nest?"

"Top floor. I thought roof, you know? But he's set up from inside the room, maybe back a foot or so from the window with a uh..." Lestrade was searching for the word, and John let him grapple for it, which was a luxury neither often have around Sherlock. It's almost perverse to enjoy. "Easel? Nah, tripod. I assume. Marks on the floor from bracing something. I can't imagine he did it standing."

"He was there a long time then, watching. He must have known his habits or that he would be there," John replied happy to share information he felt confident about. "But a professional as well... to have the equipment. That stuff isn't found just anywhere."

It always felt good to feel competent. 

"Right. And doing a check of who bought what in the last ninety days is probably a waste of my life, because the guy's probably had it for, what, five, ten years? You get to know your gun. It's like old boots, you don't just replace them when there's a nick in them. You keep a good gun until something horrible happens to it." Like a fire, or in case you need to get rid of it because you're running from the police. Lestrade took a few more turns, and guided them smoothly towards a sea of flashing red. "So, we'll get up the stairs, and you can see what I mean."

"Or Sherlock can." And he would forget that he had actually become a more than competent observer in his own right because compared to Sherlock no-one looked competent. "If the laptop works."

"Maybe today, the laptop's broke." Lestrade popped the door open, and stepped out. Just left it like that, and John wanted to laugh. John Watson, consulting... veteran. It was better than live in personal assistant, even if he did have a part time at St. Bart's that was better than the clinic.

"He'd know. He'd see it in something I said or did or moved or something," John replied, still smiling to himself. "I've given up even trying to get one over on him that way."

"I could drop it out the window, but you don't make that much." Lestrade squared his shoulders off as he locked the door once John got out. "It's up twelve flights. No lift, of course."

"Of course." He couldn't help but glance around just in case he caught a glimpse of metal high up. If he was a crazy gunman, he'd absolutely be on a spotting scope somewhere else with a good view of the proceedings. Possibly with a camera to film it all for posterity.

Possibly with a camera at the outset, and maybe that was the thing on the floor? 

By the time they reached the top, all bright thoughts had melted away to somewhere in the backs of his thighs and the burning pain of the leg that wasn't buggered up but was. Lestrade braced himself on the wall for a moment, half-way to heaving and trying to hold it back. "Right, in there. Don't touch anything, you know the rules."

"Yeah." He had his latex gloves in his pocket out of habit now and he slipped them on as he booted up the laptop. He looked around trying to spot the clues to start things off, so he wouldn't have too much ranting from Sherlock.

There'd still be quite a bit, but a man was allowed to try to subvert those moments. He had a table set up back a foot from the window, and the bracing points on the floor -- Lestrade hadn't mentioned the heavy table. It might've already been in the room, but maybe not. He'd bet money the sniper had gone prone supported on top of the table, which meant he'd had a leg up on it. All the dust had been wiped off, so if it was with the building he'd cleaned first. Cleaned table top meant the dust didn't come with him. Meant he'd been up there repeatedly.

Booted up, he turned video on and heard almost immediately the connection noise, and Sherlock's frustrated sigh. "Finally. Let me have a look at the room."

He did his slow spin around. "Table's pretty heavy. Might have needed help to get it up here if it wasn't already," he pointed out as he lingered on certain spots, remembering to tilt up and down as well.

Give Sherlock a good view, and for a moment he focused on that and let his own observations fall back. Sherlock was probably there and done already. "Unless he's a gorilla, which I'm sure would require an entirely separate shooting league. Yes, and the view, please."

He tilted the laptop out of the window frowning a little. Sherlock had to be worried. Really worried. He'd said 'please' absent-mindedly and Sherlock never did that. "Clear view of the shooting site."

"And the table from the window." He was already thinking what John was, then. Shooting platform, multiday hunt. "Meticulous, then. He took everything with him when he left. Days of refuse, trash, fingerprints as well..." Though the technicians were trying.

"Maybe he scouted other possible vantage points and wasn't as meticulous there?" John suggested. He'd heard of a few snipers who would spend a long time hunting for the right nest.

"It's possible. Out the window again, I need another look. Straight, at the other buildings." Around again, for another look, and it left John feeling paranoid because if they could see him, he could see them. He almost didn't want to look.

"I like the fact I'm the one standing here with the shiny object attracting attention, Sherlock. don't know how much detail you're getting."

"If I wanted to be cruel, I'd tell you to pull out a signal mirror. Or Lestrade's business card case, and flash that around. Back in the building. The issue's the angle. Wouldn't a good sniper know immediately if the angle's wrong, standing on the ground and looking up?"

"There are some that good," John admitted. "Not many. Shooting isn’t as easy as it appears." He was almost shamefully good at it considering he was a doctor.

"No, of course not. It has everything to do with mathematical equations that the common mind can't comprehend and wind calculations." John turned the picture around to look at Sherlock for a moment. "This certainly wasn't worth leaving the house for. Now we simply need to locate the man. Lestrade, what search are you currently wasting your time on?"

He could see Lestrade practically roll his eyes. "We are looking into known associates of the victim," he said. "As surprisingly we didn't have any eyewitnesses come forward saying how they had seen a man leave this building with a bloody great rifle under his arm."

"Have you asked after a duffle bag?" Sherlock drawled, sarcasm just dripping in his voice. "No, of course you have. How about a suitcase? How about *checking the other floors*, because perhaps he hasn't gone anywhere."

“We’re not complete incompetents. There are officers scouring the building and taking interviews, but so far there’s nothing," Lestrade said.

"He could still be here or have delayed going out." John had a horrible feeling. What if he had done something really devious like dressed up as a police officer?

"Waiting until people in uniform started to mill about. Yes, he'd have to have the proper bearing for that, however, I assume he'd manage. Still, I have a suspect and no evidence to take me to him. I'm sure your team will find no prints, nothing of substance. Come back to the flat, John. I have another angle I'd like to take this from."

"Fine Sherlock, I've had a really fantastic time climbing up god knows how many flights of stairs for you to say this was a waste of time.”

"It's a waste of time because Colonel Moran left nothing to prove it was him." Over the lip of the laptop screen, he could see Lestrade mouthing 'Colonel Moran'.

"Wait a -- how do you have a name already?"

"You know the police do like a little thing called physical evidence," John pointed out. "And I'd like to know where you got the name from as well."

He watched Sherlock exhale slowly, and then roll his eyes, before holding up the newspaper John had been reading. Under the fold there was a picture of a poker tournament. Sherlock tapped it. "We're looking for a local sniper, who doesn't have to be imported at extra cost to blow away whatever nothing Lestrade is trying to convince you can't possibly have known anything of import before a .338 Lapua Magnum blew through his head. Check the bullet in him, Inspector. Our boy's home-grown, and uses the MoD's best."

"Well it's a lead at least," Lestrade said. "If that's the case, I wouldn't be at all surprised if your brother didn't turn up shortly."

Or send a car.

John grimaced inside, because he'd rather have had a cab. Sherlock shook his head and sat back in his chair, setting the newspaper aside. "They won't concern themselves with it. I have a lead or two to follow up on tonight. We'll be in touch if anything comes up." It was always so pleasant when he hung up before John could say something.

"Well, thanks for the escort. Sounds like Sherlock is on to something so I'm going to...uh..." Grab a sandwich before the almost certain deadly peril that would ensue.

And it wasn’t the peril that bothered him -- it was that he obviously wasn't going to be getting the agreed on decent dinner after all. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, and nodded. "Good luck, and be careful, John."

"I'll try and let you know what's going on. You know how Sherlock can be.." he said as he headed towards the door. His leg was not going to be happy with him by the time he got out of the building.

He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know Lestrade had his arms crossed and was just shaking his head at John as he went. Maybe they'd show Sherlock up and find the evidence to make the connection before he did. Legally, the way the rules required.

Not that John expected it to happen.

* * *

Sometimes, a man just needed to leave the flat.

His back was killing him, right in the lower part of his spine, shuddering down his thigh. It had to be all the up and down stairs, and no amount of rehab would make it better. He never felt it when he was doing it, but it sank into his bones when he wasn't expecting it, taunting him that he was old. Old and worn out and not quite living up to expectations anymore, was he? The morning, and the tube had started all of that off, playing his part on the twelfth floor. 

"Another one." He gestured to the bartender, who was pleasant enough to not, likely, spit in the steak he'd ordered. There wasn't any telling what his partner had done in any particular restaurant they went to. Had he made friends, or ground someone down with an offhanded comment that might one day leave them both quite surprised and poisoned?

Moriarty did have a tendency to make mortal enemies the way other people would have casual acquaintances. Recently though he’d become a little fixated on an adversary that at once delighted him and sent him into incandescent rage. There were a few times that he wondered whether it was lapsing into an obsession -- more so than usual.

Everything was an unerring obsession with Jim. Other men breathed with less frequency than Jim obsessed, knew all, controlled all, pulled at strings and made configurations that Seb followed most of the time, but possibly only because of less than patient explanations. It didn't matter -- he knew what he needed to know, and never asked questions. Never asked why. Jim hadn't even had to train that one into him, because he'd come with that particular instinct to begin with.

The kill shot was still glorious, even if he didn't think the man had been worth the powder spent on him. That moment between breaths where he squeezed the trigger and saw it happen before it happened, before the crack shattered the peace because even a silencer wasn't good enough in an arrangement that acoustically amplifying. And there had been no noise to cover it.

There was a moment of being a god about it. Life and death by his design and his will. It was something he excelled at and there was a zen-like quality to achieving that perfection. Jim had told him to take that particular man out, publicly and precisely and he had done so. The design would become apparent later.

For now, he was going to drink and eat and savour just how crisp his own life was, sitting at the bar that had too-loud, too young music, in an absurdly good suit. Jim again; if he hadn't been accustomed to having other men, other rules make those less important decisions for him, it would've chaffed. But those were inconsequential things.

He scanned the bar out of habit. It was true what they said about those who experienced real action and he was well aware that if he had the PTSD it was a part of him. Hyper vigilance was a way of life for him and for Jim Moriarty. That was part of the reason they were together -- he understood without ever having to talk about it.

There was no need to explain, no need to ask what was going on. Jim was all chameleon pitches and pulled faces and putty-like absurdity because it pleased him to be plastic, to be anyone he wanted to be; and then he was screaming rages and shaking hands and spitting howling anger in bloody torn Gucci. Or where-ever the suit had been made. He knew that moment, the low after the crest, the turn that sheer mindless delight took, sometimes too fast.

Sitting at the bar was its own exercise in diversion. He spotted the gait of a soldier out of the corner of his eye even as the man ordered a beer with a hint of world-weariness. It was enough to pique his interest at least. Soldiers understood soldiers. Particularly given the optempo of the last decade. 

Seb took another sip, and closed his eyes for a moment. He knew the exact angle the man was from him, and could probably still pull a pistol out and shoot him clean through without having to open his eyes. He was going to be calm, easy, and not let the downswing get him that time. He still had a fingernail claw-mark on his temple from the last time he'd gotten antsy at Jim the same time Jim had been howling death threats out the window at his neighbour. 

They were both bloody lucky they still had their eyes.

When he opened them, the man was sitting beside him. It took a moment to recall where he had seen him last. Ironically it had been through a scope with a lot of explosive strapped to him. Well, well, John Watson, and completely oblivious at that.

"Hey, you okay?" Oh yes he was a doctor too, no doubt he had assumed he was having a seizure or something. 

"Fine. Just taking a moment." To think, to centre himself, to not do something mad and insane and get himself dragged off to prison on a lark. He was still fairly sure even a night in the drunk tank would be untenable. "You look familiar."

"Not sure why," John answered amiably enough. "Unless you've unfortunate enough to be one of my patients, or spent time in Afghanistan."

He made it too easy for Seb. Just walked right into it. It was novel to run into a victim in a bar, and then get to see where his life was, particularly one that was so tied up in Jim's latest obsession. "Five tours. You?"

"Three… well, I was in my fourth but didn't complete it," he made an awkward sort of shrug. "You know how it goes."

"IED or small arms fire?" He returned the shrug for what it was, and took another sip of his beer. There was a young couple making out in the corner, and the music was all ups and downs and faintly disco in the way that made him imagine Jim dancing on the bar top with a flame thrower.

"Yeah, a bullet. Leg didn't work right after." It was all said very matter of fact and Seb approved of the lack of self-pity. For someone who looked so non-descript, John Watson was interesting. Solid. Grounding.

He wondered just how the man put up with a self-righteous bint like Holmes. "Yeah. Shrapnel's a bitch." He lifted his eyebrows at the man, as if it was the full and proper explanation of what he was doing. "What unit were you with?"   
"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," he answered and there was a surprise. He probably had seen him in Afghanistan after all for all his glib assurances.

He didn't like to play reality too close to the game of things, but there was no sense in masking his surprise. It left him wondering if Jim had set him up, had maneuvered it all into place. He'd sent Seb there for dinner, with a carefully worded suggestion and a lazy gesture from his office of half-heartedly showing Seb the bottom of his shoe. "That was my unit. I'm Colonel Seb Moran. Well, or I was." He offered John his hand, because it was safe and he still existed as a person and he should do things like that. Say hello. 

Be a person.

There was a slightly startled look from Watson, who reached out and shook his hand. "Uh… Sorry, I just had a reflexive moment where I felt I should be saluting or standing to attention. A Colonel in my unit. Hell, what are the odds?"

"London's a big city." He exhaled, scanning the bar. "And this really is a hell hole. I have a bastard of a buddy who recommends places on, I think, the likelihood that I'll get food poisoning. Were you an officer or enlisted?" And was he going to give Seb his name or keep playing oddly shaky?

"Captain John Watson… or Doctor John Watson depending on the uniform of the day," he said with a half-smile. "Yeah, I have friends like that too."

"Better a friend like that than none at all, I suppose. Good to meet you, Doc." He wanted to ask what brought him there -- luck seemed like too much of a coincidence, but if Sherlock had sent him there, then perhaps they were both being set up as proxy for their respective masters. The question was, did he know about the pool?

"You meeting someone? I was just grabbing something to eat." He smiled a little. "Don't want to cramp your style or anything.”

"Not at all. I'm just getting a steak and some chips." He took another sip of his beer, and scanned the place again, easing up, looking as casual as he could manage. "Flat was feeling a little claustrophobic. You know how it is." At least the ceiling was high in the place, which made him think about c4 in the rafters and all of the things he could do to bring a place down on their heads. Rig a springleaf in the doorway and tie it to the first unfortunate mis-step coming in.

"Yeah." He wondered if John Watson looked at people and worked out how to patch them up if they got blown up. "Been back in London long?"

"Nearly three years." He grimaced a little inside, because three years had felt like three lifetimes and he could still feel the men pulling him off of that Afghani, a wild snap that was the final excuse they needed to drum him out. "Funny thing is that I still miss it."

"Yeah? I don't miss the extremes of hot and cold over there. And the way dust got into everything. Even if you practically vacuum sealed it away," John said smiling slightly. "Or the god awful excuse for beer."

"I miss the shuras." The political machinations and drinking tea until he thought it was going to come out of his nose and wondering is that one a bomber? Is that one a bomber? Who's got it in for who and who's going to do in who and is the compound secure and is the ECP functioning or are they just fucking around. Seb licked his bottom lip. "Of all things, right?"

John nodded a little. "Kinda gave me hope that people could be reasoned with. There was so much... stupid waste of life. I guess we saw more than most - stupid accidents, or really bad decision-making under pressure and there I am up to my elbows in guts."

"Everyone counted on you lot. That golden hour to get medical attention, the minutes ticking away while we all waited for the QRF to get there." He pressed his tongue against his upper teeth once his mouth was closed, and gently bit, because he was not going to self-induce a fucking flashback on himself sitting there chatting with a victim. He was so much better than that, so much more controlled, and he was going to be calm. "And then you come back stateside and you're still up to your elbows in guts. It never changes."

"It's weird, but going out there in the action one minute I was shooting, the next minute running out under fire to save someone. For all I know it could have been the same person," John replied. "I got selected for that a lot in the end. It... my friend reckons I'm a bit of an adrenalin junkie."

He felt himself smiling before he really meant to, and gave a friendly enough gesture of thanks to the waiter who set his meal down, and John's as well. It told him something about the service when he got his at the same time as someone who came in later. "Yeah. There isn't anything like the warzone. I'm a..." He gestured vaguely. "Tried the nine to fives, you know? I'd wager it hasn't worked well for you, either."

John practically snorted. "No kidding. I'm on the 24/7 for however long, then complete stand down sort of cycle. Apparently it gets better. What line of work are you in now?"

There was the far better than he should've had clothes to explain, because it was clearly not an office worker's clothes. Did he say hired thug? No, too obvious and John's hackles would go up. Instead he chuckled, and tilted his head down for a moment before looking back at John. "I do consulting for Adams' defence. They're a gunsmith place. I do workup for the yearly gun show. Other than that, it's the pension, old book royalties and my tolerant friends."

"Step up from the usual security guard," John said. "You specialise in guns huh? I used to be pretty good. Well, comparatively. Not a specialist though."

"Willing to put a hole in a man and then plug it up?" He smirked a little as he picked up his knife and fork to cut himself a piece of steak. "Pistols?"

"Browning. Standard issue," John replied. "Nothing fancy... But I used it when I needed to." He smiled again eating his own food. Some sort of chicken, and chips as well. 

It was funny that talking about guns made the man smile. "Yeah. biggest use I get out of it now's the yearly gun show, firing ranges every once in a while." He sighed, and took a bite. It made him wistful, and that was bizarre so soon after a good shooting and the anxious feeling that went after it. It wasn't right at all. Seb took another swig of beer, looking out over the bar, scanning for a moment.

There was a pause of companionable silence for a moment and then John said. "You know, now I think of it, I think I heard about you... one of those half legendary things you know. I guess it must have been the year after you left."

"Mhm? What was it?" He let natural curiosity seep in, and stepped back from scanning. Jim had to be in the room or in the building somewhere, and it was a question of finding where he was hiding. It was fucking Where's Wally with a guy in a suit, and that was madness because Jim and his eyes stood out like a wildfire in the middle of a city park.

"That you gave some payback for some infiltrators who set IEDs and took out some of our people," he replied. "And it got political." And that was what John Watson did to people he didn't know had aimed a sighting laser at his head. Bugger if he actually pissed the man off what he'd dredge up for dinner conversation.

"It did. And I did. I don't regret it, either. If I put the fear of the UK into a few of those bastards, then good enough."

"You were pretty much an unsung hero," he said, glancing at him. "Sorry. Shit, I shouldn't have brought that up should I? Uh, forget it. I'm not that good at the whole normal communication thing."

"Join the club." He raised his glass in toast to a man who he suspected he'd have to kill sooner rather than later. There weren't any rules that he knew about against playing with the prey, not given how often Jim indulged in it. "I took a fall, but it didn't kill me. Things are better now."

“That's something to be thankful for at least," John said toasting back. Interesting, for a moment it seemed like Dr. Watson was checking him out in an entirely unprofessional way.

Not at all to type for the man, from what he knew. Be took another swift of his beer and gestured for the bartender to bring him another. If he wasn't going to get any satisfaction from where's Wally, he could at least get completely hammered. "So, other than the job, life treating you well? I don't see many men from the unit."

"Yeah not bad," John said. "I haven't seen anyone either. Most of the guys I was with are still out there." Or dead, but that was understood between them. "I share a flat with someone who keeps me on my toes. You never know what experiment you might find in the fridge."

"Experiment you might find in the fridge?" He cocked an eyebrow at John. "What's your flatmate, a science teacher?"

"Jack of all trades and master of... well, all of them, if you listen to him," he said with a chuckle.

"I'm not sure I'd trade you for my occasional stay in or not. I had enough of people above me knowing everything -- and knowing it wrong -- in the army." The morning he'd woken up and the sugar bowl had been full of cocaine had been interesting, and more of a surprise than finding something wet and fleshy stretched out over the kitchen table and Jim under the table making notes.

"It's why I eat out a lot. Even for a doctor, finding a human brain next to the cold pasta is a little off putting," John answered. "You got a crazy too? Maybe it's an old soldier thing."

He snorted, watching John's expressions. Open, relaxed, casual. That was life with Sherlock Holmes, then, human brains next to the pasta salad. "My crazy put my clothes in a rubbish bin and set them on fire. I suppose I should be grateful he replaced them." And that he'd left, of all things, his dress uniform intact in the closet.

"What the hell did you get on them for him to do that?" John paused in amazement, fork half way to his mouth.

He gave a shrug, swearing he'd seen Jim out of the corner of his eye. He was sure of it. "Apparently 20 years of service left me with horrible taste in clothes." It certainly had John Watson, who was one fuzzy sweater away from looking like a kid's tv show host.

"I find that hard to believe," John said raising an eyebrow looking at him again. "Considering."

He looked at himself, and gave a laugh, looking back at Jim. "No, I gave up and just let him bully around in my closet. If it keeps him shut the fuck up about my jeans, who cares, right?"

John laughed. "The man's got taste that's for sure," he said. "I like my crappy clothes. They're comfortable."

He took another swig of beer and sighed. "I miss my crappy clothes. But I've never had a human skull beside the pasta salad. What we do for cheaper rent, eh?" Like hell John Watson stayed for the rent. Still, he wondered why Watson did stay. Loyalty? Friendship? Excellent sex? The thrill of talking in a bar to someone who'd tried to kill him?

He observed in a different way to Moriarty, he knew it. Jim was a genius, but he wasn't stupid. He could follow where his partner led him which made him the first. Precious to Jim in a strange way because others could not do that. The obsession with Sherlock made him twitch because...

Well, he tried not to think about the why. 

"Pension wasn't that great," Watson answered. "And stops me staying in watching TV."

"I suppose he has to come across the human skulls somewhere." Talking about flatmates was easier than talking about themselves, even if he was only talking about a rough sketch of one of Jim's facets. "Mine mostly inflicts things on me. Dragged me out to the country to tip cows last year." And giggled like a school girl the whole time.

"Tip cows? Jesus..." John shook his head looking amused. "I'll have to make sure mine doesn't end up hearing that idea. It's bad enough trying to keep up when he's in the middle of some weird re-enactment."

"What's he re-enact?" He glanced around, but mostly focused on John. He could see Jim leaving the men's room from the corner of his eye, his profile cutting and familiar in a way that all the tricks and obscuration couldn't manage to mask like his angles. He wasn’t going to look at him, even if he wanted to. It was a shame about peripheral vision -- shapes and movement, shades and colour, but nothing defined. Focal vision was the size of a coin held at arm's length and it was all focused on John Watson because he was feigning a normal conversation with him.

"He does some research work for the police so forensic crime scenes for a start," John offered. "He came home covered in blood the other day. I've reached the point where this seems normal."

"I'd blame the war for that." To at least clothe it in a socially acceptable light. For all that he was still existent at as person, there were things one didn't say. Not if you didn't want to get looked askew by people who didn't understand. By the normal people who were enjoying the music, and drinking and flirting around them while he and John held down their end of the bar with the weight of their lives and experience. And there was Jim again, headed their way. "If you have to blame anything."

"It's probably why I'm the only roommate he's had who’s stuck around. Maybe living with him is like living in a warzone," John said.

That was... more than a little true for him and Jim. It was like a warzone living with him and it felt like home.

He settled into it, because the spikes, the chaos, the screaming, the fights, the calms, it felt right. It made the knot in his stomach unfurl and relax because he knew what was coming: Anything, everything. Better than nothing. He wondered if there was anyone dead in the bathroom now that Jim had left it, and if he'd cleaned his hands or not regardless, nails somewhere between ragged from mania and manicured. He wondered if Sherlock did the same thing, and whether Jim was just fascinated by staring at his own dark mirror in the man.

Five beers in was probably time to slow down a little on the drinking. "Yeah. It kind of is. Maybe we should start suggesting that to guys when they get back. Crazy flatmates will either finish you off, or just click." 

"He might yet be the death of me," John said with a laugh. "But I guess I'm not the type to walk away."

It was really strange. Watson was... what? A lighter reflection of himself. There were so many things he could see of himself in the other man but they were at the same time different. Was he a distorted version of Watson or was Watson a shallow sketch of him? Jim would probably have an opinion.

"I know the feeling." Which was odd again. He lifted his eyebrows, and leaned to take another sip of his beer when he heard it.

The mother fucking Beegees.

Staying alive. He knew what that meant. Jim was having his version of fun and his body reacted. Conditioned to the cues of his partner, the adrenalin surged to cut through the alcohol he'd been drinking and he felt more than saw Jim appear behind him. "Ah, Seb, there you are. Tsk, tsk am I going to be driving you home again? Or were you intending to be unfaithful to me?"

He tilted his head backwards, half twisting, and still holding onto his beer. John Watson had gone stock still, and Seb could feel his own mood shifting entirely in the other direction. God knew and didn't like whatever the hell Jim had been getting up to -- he was almost jealous to have been excluded, unless he *was* the game this time. "Drunk. I was planning to get a taxi, but if you're offering... Pull up a chair."

"Well I would, but your new friend here seems a little disappointed to see me," he said and Seb could see the moment Jim’s dark eyes shifted. Holy... for brief moment that seemed like actual jealousy. Well, well that was interesting.

"Uh, I probably ought to be going," John was saying with admirable calm. 

"Oh don't leave on my account... John," Moriarty leaned forward and he was dangerous enough like that to make Seb’s mouth go dry.

He was fairly sure he'd never seen actual jealousy in Jim's eyes, or even close to it. Seb slid his arm around Jim's waist, and pulled him in, twisting on the bar chair. The hysterical part was that Jim was small enough to perch on his knee, even if Seb ended up with his teeth in his nose for it later. "We were just discussing flatmates."

"Oh well of course. Obviously the two of you are the less interesting of any couple pairing," Moriarty said. "But you know what? I think you were having... thoughts about the inestimable Colonel Moran here. Were you wanting to play a little Doctor with him?"

"No, I... we were just talking. I didn’t know who he was," John replied glancing at him. Interestingly, there was anger under the fear.

"I should save the playing Doctor for your own room mate, John Watson," Jim purred at him and John straightened in his seat. He would have to warn Jim about playing with that particular emotion with old soldiers. It didn't always produce predictable results.

Then again, maybe he didn't have to warn Jim at all. If he got himself in trouble, that was on his head, and Seb'd keep it from being serious. Mostly. "We were in the same unit, Jim. The way you carry on, you'd think I was a gigolo." Which was rich coming from a man who was leaning his ass against Seb's thigh. It was surprising how warm he was through his suit pants.

It was perhaps a little calculating but he was expecting some intense sex later as a result of this. 

"If you've.,."

"Oh, I win," Moriarty grinned, voice pitching up and down in the range of a hissed whisper. "Less than two minutes to the first unforgiveable cliché. 'Oh, oh If you've hurt him I'll cry myself to sleep at night'. Frankly, John I'm shocked at you. Out of his sight, and you hit on something that's mine. That... makes me want to do many, many things John."

"You know, you make feigning innocence damn hard, Jim. What happened to pretending you were an investment banker?" He took another swig of his beer. "I like that story."

"It seems a little redundant considering the fun I had with John here when I was wrapping him up," Jim said smirking. 

"Your particular brand of crazy is engraved on my mind," John answered with commendable steadiness. It did make Seb wonder what Jim had done in that time. He’d seen men break after a couple of minutes alone with Moriarty.

"You'd know -- you live with one, too." To hell with it. He swallowed the last of his beer, and carefully fished a tenner out of his shirt. It took effort without unsettling Jim from his perch, because the last thing he wanted to do was spill Jim onto the floor when that was as close as he ever got to affectionate.

"I'll be seeing you soon, John," Jim said as he started to shift, and yeah, he liked that razor edged possessive vibe. "It's a pleasure to see you join the game. It means I get to play with you, too."

He let his hand go looser, just in case Jim wanted to move away, or shift in closer. But god, it felt good. It was the not knowing that settled low in his stomach, left him feeling comfortable as he popped a chip into his mouth. "So. Your flatmate put you up to this?"

"I… well," John looked nervous. "I was going to say no but I'm not sure myself now." Oh, he knew that feeling of being casually used by his partner.

He'd thought it was odd of Jim to firmly recommend he go there, but it left him wondering what clues he'd left for Sherlock to lure him to place John there. Jim was staring at John quite openly, wide eyes more menacing for the innocence they'd likely truly never held for a second in their lives. "I suppose the question is, what now?"

"As I guess you and Sherlock have managed to have your conversation, I'm going to go now and make sure there aren't blood stains on the wall," John replied with a surprising amount of backbone. Yeah, he had a feeling Jim might underestimate him.

"Oh good. Do you mind if I finish your chips?" Jim started to slip off of Seb's lap, getting close enough to John to make him flinch. But he didn't flinch, and Seb kept an arm loose on Jim just in case. It was a moment he would've personally taken to hurt Jim, if he'd been the Doc.

But there was the difference. He could see it in him, that need to remove the threat, but he didn't move. Jim would see that as a weakness, but he knew himself it needed more strength not to react.

"Help yourself," he said curtly

Jesus bloody fucking a two star. Jim was humming to himself, and Seb didn't interfere, didn't react except to wait, to wait and surprise himself to catch John's eyes. They ruined things, after all. It was what they *did*, ruined things, tore the world down around themselves and enjoyed it, revelled in the madness, but it was the quiet moments, the tiny instances where he was actually needed to be Jim's bodyguard, that were all adrenaline and no fun.

The movement when it came was a surprise, and it was John pushing his stool back to stand, just fast enough and sudden enough to say 'I could if I had to.' "I hope you don't hold it against me if you get a cold. I might have coughed on them."

"No, no problem at all." Jim was all slow drawls, wild smirks of his mouth as he popped one in his mouth, and Seb finally relaxed, turning his head enough to finally catch sight of Sherlock. Now it was a party, wasn't it? He'd been waiting for something that looked like a threat to his flatmate.

"I think we're done here, Jim..."

“Oh, it's true. Well this has been fun," Jim said with a smile and a flippant salute at Sherlock as he literally swept out of the room.

Nothing to do but follow in Jim's wake, shaking off the nerves and letting himself ebb into feeling Jim's shifts as they left the bar. That had been the point -- he could reach out and touch John, if Sherlock wanted to play games like that.

"Well that was fun, wasn't it?" Jim said with a bounce in his step and a broad grin. "Oh, if I'd realise quite how much fun the doctor was, I would have played with him before."

Seb couldn't quite shake off the feeling that it all could've gone very badly in a moment, for little payoff. "He's fun all right. He's got teeth," he uttered, falling into step with Jim.

"But like kitten teeth!" Jim said gesturing broadly. "Sherlock is *beautiful* in his adequacy. Really it's a pleasure. Everything seems so much fresher and brilliant now."

He found it in himself to grin, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. "I'd like to test those kitten teeth sometime, see what he's made out of." But not where Jim could get himself caught off guard, cocky and high on it.

"Maybe when I've dealt with Sherlock we could take him home with us and try him out," Jim suggested airily. "Oh, or… or it would be a shame for Sherlock to miss it wouldn't it?"

"It would." And it wouldn't go like the usual ones, mewling like kittens and screaming hysterically. His shoulder brushed Jim's, close enough to feel the heat coming off of him. Too hot -- high hot. He'd probably been in the bathroom trying someone's wares. "I'll flag down a taxi. Let them deal with their stomach butterflies for a few nights."

"Let’s go home." He was glowing practically and it was a blessing he wanted to go back. "Were you tempted Seb? Mmm?"

"Didn't even notice he was flirting. Well. I noticed, but it was overdone and wasn't interesting." People only looked other people over like that when you wanted to creep the fuck out of them, honestly. Same reason Jim did it.

"But you liked him, I saw that," Jim slipped an arm around him. His mind was probably moving a million miles an hour. "But I'm glad because then I wouldn't have to be angry at you."

They headed for a cab, two dapper men, with Jim hanging onto him comfortably, his fingers too-warm, digging against his skin through the fabric of his clothes, hard enough to bruise. "He was a good sort, as a soldier. Patched my men up reliably. Didn't make a fuss of why I was discharged."

"Welllll... He wasn't exactly the poster boy for mental health either," Jim drawled. "Shot in the shoulder but it's his leg that doesn't work. Repression is bad for you. It's good we're so healthy with our inner rage, isn't it, otherwise you might be paralysed completely and that wouldn't be anywhere near as much fun for me.

He pulled the door open, and let Jim slide into the backseat first, watching the cabbie's face. He never trusted cabbies, and for good reason -- they'd used them themselves enough to always expect trouble with them. "I think if I was paralysed, you'd drag me off down the street like a sack of potatoes, narrating the whole time. Wheelbarrow, maybe. Hoist me up as an effigy on bonfire night." He lifted his eyebrows at Jim, and got kicked in the leg as he got into the cab for his trouble. It burned nicely. 

"You sound almost as if you relish the prospect," Jim said gripping his wrist tightly.

He sprawled on his half of the back, thigh pressed up against Jim's leg. "I've learned to enjoy everything that comes to me. I need that hand, you know. In case you want any other little fuckers knocked off."

"You know I will give you everything you never even knew you wanted," Jim murmured in his ear, biting it with a sharp nip. "Mm. What to do with you tonight..."

"Fuck." He was most of the way to hard enough to fuck a hole in cement. He could feel it pressing against the seam of his suit pants, just enough to be uncomfortable. "I'm up for suggestions..."

"I'm feeling possessive," Jim said resting his hand on Seb's crotch and squeezing enough for pain. His eye were dark and dilated with drugs or arousal or both. "I'm gonna leave marks, and take it from you whether you want it or not."

He let his head rest back against the seatback, and exhaled in a huff. "Is that a promise?" Because he was going to fight it, and he was going to *make* Jim take. And that was going to feel so very good, fighting back.

“Oh yes," it was a whisper in his ear. "I'm not going to tell you how, but maybe I will paralyse you, and then fuck you hard. And you won't even be able to scream will you Seb? no."

"You'll have to actually pull it off." He was daring Jim, and it wasn't wise, but it was promising him a hell of a night. He twisted into Jim, catching one wrist to pin him down on his side of the seat. The cabbie was watching them, half concerned.

“Do you doubt it?" Jim chuckled unconcerned. Nails clenched into his skin somehow, tight and drawing blood. "Inside... We need to be inside."

“Hell of a thing to get arrested for, sex in the back of a cab." In mostly daylight still, just the cusp of night. He twisted enough to fish his wallet out with one hand, and got himself slapped for it. "What the hell were you doing in the bathroom back there? Here, you take cash, buddy?"

It seemed the man did, and was more than grateful to get rid of them both. "Oh having a little aperitif," Jim replied making his accent sound deliberately thick and incongruous. "Go on up. I have a call to make and then, I'm coming after you."

Their own version of the game.

"Good luck." He had his keys out in no time, but he was mostly sure he'd get upstairs, inside the flat and then Jim'd be on him. He still made a casual jog, and thought about the best place to hole up and wait.

It was interesting when Jim was like this. He truly did not know what would happen, and it was possible that one day Moriarty might just dance right off that knife edge of control and would kill him. But that was the point right there. In theory it should be an unfair contest. He out massed him, had all of his military training, was a natural sort of killer. But Jim Moriarty was a genius. He... thought in the fractured sort of rainbows that bisected normal thought from a completely different angle.

All of that training, all of that natural skill meant nothing when things came at angles he never expected. It was an unfair contest at *him*, rather than the other way around. Still, the neighbours hadn't called the cops on them. Yet.

He tended to not scream too loud.

The door came open, and he shut and locked it, for all the good it would do, starting forward into the hallway. The reason why Jim Moriarty was so dangerous was because he had that rare combination of being not just a genius at planning, but a genius at spontaneity. Usually people were one or the other. Mycroft Holmes was a better planner, they knew that, but Jim could unravel the most meticulous of plans with one sideways interruption. He got away because Seb firmly believed if someone shot at him, he could out think the bullet.

Unless it was someone who was all reactionary like John Watson. Then, Seb would have to keep an eye out for him.

Now, the game. Two options -- hide and make it hard to get him out, or stand and defend himself.

What would Jim expect him to do? Make himself available to be caught probably. He could go for a pre-emptive strike from behind the door - he couldn't remember the last time he had been that bold.

Best to do that, then waiting. He hit the kitchen first, and stared. The easy ones were the frying pan, steak knives. There was the coffee grinder, too, which was a little more precious to him. The cutting board was fair game, though.

Hide the coffee grinder then, arm himself. Find his spot, settle in and try to breathe silently for those crucial moments. Jim might think he was holed up somewhere. There weren’t that many places. The downside of an open floor plan to a flat shared with a psychopath. There was no bloody place to hide or stage any sorts of good attacks from secrecy. All good surprises came from letting his guard down, and Jim never seemed to let *his* down. 

It was just waiting.

It would be a fight. It was always a fight with them, that was their romantic dance. He found his niche, he let his senses reach out. Hyper acuity, the meeting of fire and ice in his mind where he felt alive. Every sound, every creaking settle of the floor boards, listening for breathing, for a brush against the walls, anything.

The creak of the panel in front of the door. Good, or maybe not good. Jim was coming in the front door rather than a window, which was somewhat disconcerting. Hand on the latch, noise of keys. He stretched his fingers on the edges of the cutting board and didn't breathe.

It was completely silent. Completely. As if no one had entered the flat. Perhaps Jim was doing what he was doing, standing listening. And then his phone vibrated. Even on silent in the deathly hush, the sound was as obvious as a clanging bell. Shit!

Asshole. Did he answer it, and have to turn it into a weapon, or just ignore it? Ignore it, because it was already too late to try throwing it across the room. Jim's hearing was too good for that. He could do something similar though. He flicked it open and hastily sent a reply listening for the response. He could hear one off to the right.

There was no way Jim would have it on him. If it was to the right, Jim would be elsewhere. He might expect him to run from his spot as well. He was probably expecting him to run. No, he was going to wait. Let the tiger come to him this time, explore and prowl. He knew he'd be coming from anywhere *but* off to the right.

Jim could move as silently as any trained sniper and he caught himself straining to work out where he was. He was ready, he was ready...

He wasn't ready for the punch that swung out of the darkness. How the hell did he get there? It rang his bell, and he staggered for a moment before he lashed out with the cutting board. He felt it connect with Jim's shoulder, then dropped it and lunged forward. If he could pin the little fucker down, high or not...

Jim punched as if all that crazed intensity could be focused into that movement. But if Seb connected more than once he stood a chance of bringing Jim down properly. He snarled in a feral enjoyment, he had him... he had him down for all the kicks and hits. Yes!

There was just the briefest moment where Seb caught the crackle buzz of high voltage and the glow of an electric arc heading towards him.

"Oh, fuck!" Or he swore that was what he was trying to say, even as he knotted a hand in Jim's shirt-collar hard enough to choke him. Or he thought he was, because everything went horrible and sloshing and eventually dark.

* * *

He wasn't sure what pushed through his dim consciousness first; there was pain there pulsing and moving, the sensation of cold floor tiles on bare skin, and tightness. He couldn't seem to move but there was a weight on him and a movement.

It was bizarre and disorienting. He could feel the tiles on his face, and it took a moment, but he could open his eyes. The light from the kitchen was on, making him grimace for a moment before he tried to move in a flail of motion.

"Ah, ah Seb... I don't think your limbs are going to respond right now. And I really don't want to be interrupted right now."

His arms and legs were twitching in response to his attempts but not moving. "I did promise you this." The voice murmured dark and rich in his ear. "Taking you against your will."

Did he? Seb remembered some sort of joke about a wheelbarrow, but not much else just then. He managed a grunt, and he was still breathing as he tried to turn his head better, tried to look over his shoulder. Jim bit his ear instead. "What're..."

"I'm fucking you." Jim said it gleefully, pitching up with familiar comfortable sing-song. "I suppose some might call it rape because of technicalities like you being unconscious but you know, you get off on it, so I don't think you'll mind how I use and abuse you will you?"

Not really, no, but he still twitched his legs testingly, straining to move. "'d you hit me with?" The more he worked his mouth, the less he slurred. Never mind that the inside of his mouth tasted bizarre as well, he'd work that out later when he wasn't pancaked to the floor with Jim on top of him.

"A little bit of a nice police issue tazer I borrowed from someone this evening." He could feel a strange sensation as if nerves were waking up and realising that someone was in his ass fucking him but couldn't quite believe it.

It was sort of shocking -- hah -- and he tried again to move, to make sure everything worked. "Those things should be illegal." Never mind that the idea of a cop with something like that was horrifying. Jim pressed teeth against his neck, and he felt it, hard enough to shudder, hot breath against his skin behind the bite. "Fuck."

"Ah, well, there was a public outcry," Jim said as he bit down and pushed hard into him. "I think I like this... knowing you are awake but weak as a kitten. I could do… Anything. I might do anything." The thought seemed to excite him as he thrust harder.

And all Seb could feel was the jarring motion. He could feel the pressure but not the enjoyable part, the sting and the ache and the stretch. One leg was coming to life, like pins and needles in reverse, and he kept trying to get a knee under him, to get traction, to push back, anything. Anything, and it wasn't taking yet. "Might surprise you."

"You might." There was an actual laugh there, low and real and confident. “You know I can actually feel the nerves starting to come back on line again? The twitch."

He laughed, mostly in reaction, and turned his head to press his forehead against the cool tile before he gave another attempt to get his leg under him. It spasmed more than it worked, particularly when the pain started to hit before the rest of the sensation did. He groaned, struggling against it uselessly. It probably felt fantastic to Jim, high as a fucking kite and balls deep in him.

"Yes, fight it Seb, I like that..." His voice lilt deep with a hungry arousal. There was another bite and the numbness as definitely wearing off.

Fuck. He exhaled, panting through the pain. It was shocking, not being there for the moment of receiving it but feeling it seep in despite it, disembodied and unable to connect it to anything at all. He did get his leg to move, but it probably looked more like he was making snowangels by the time he felt his ass twitch around Jim's dick. "Christ."

"Ah, feeling coming back now? Oh that's good... I wonder if you can get hard now," Jim murmured pressing him firmly down.

He groaned, feeling that, feeling it better when he managed to get an arm somewhat underneath of his body. "What the hell did you do, beat me with a frying pan while I was out?"

"Another fantasy of yours to fulfil?" Jim replied, laughing happily. "I'll remember that. No, you did fight back even while being zapped. It was... rather magnificent actually."

"I'm not volunteering for you to beat me with a frying pan." He waited a beat, two beats, three, right, it wasn't waiting so much as trying to find the energy, and then managed to get his leg under him at last, hard enough to shove back at Jim. "Just fucking move."

"So you *can* feel it now." Yes he could and from the way Jim was going for it now, he was taking his words to heart.

"Of course I can. Was it much fun, when I was unconscious?" It was a curious question, while he still tried to process the jarring thrusts and the burning ache, and his balance, and the fact that his dick was hard enough to hammer nails again and probably had been while he'd been unconscious, too.

"Yes. I've been... very naughty to you." It sounded strangely impish. "I'm not going to tell you what I did. But I do like this, the feeble struggling while you are conscious. Usually to get you this pliant I have to knock you senseless."

"Anything else you want to tell me?" He reached for sounding pissed off, but the hard dig of fingers into his hips brought him backwards just right, just perfect. Hard and deep, beautiful sharp fucking that made everything burst with light behind his eyes. "'s a cockring?"

"Well, it seemed only fair. I didn't want you not aware of how much your body was enjoying what I was doing. I much prefer to see if I can make you hurt with needing it," Jim said in a tone that just hit every spot he had. He could do it too, he had done it. He knew how to play him so he wanted to scream where traditional torture could never break him.

It was just a perfect balance of pain and sex. Jim was just hammering him, making delight noises right up against his ear. Fuck. He still couldn't quite get a hand down between his legs to stroke himself off.

"Oh, yes, I’m going to... yes..." Jim grunted as he sped up and let himself go in a frenzy. He felt the shudder and release and supreme contentment.

And Jim slumped over his back, making pleased humming noises while he struggled to stay on elbows and knees long enough to jerk himself off. "No. No that's not for you," Jim chastised. "That's mine." Jim withdrew and turned him over. It jarred his tailbone and he reached out to grab at Jim, getting his hands on Jim's shoulders just because he could.

The man was almost fever hot, his eyes dilated until they seemed completely black. His hand around his cock that had been against the chill of floor tiles was startling in its heat and he started jerking him off in a demanding way.

Wild eyes, half-naked and glorious. He pulled Jim in closer, tried to kiss him and crushed his fingers against Jim's vertebra. It ached, dry hot fingers on his dick, like the man was trying to strip a tree of bark, and he thrust up to meet Jim's fingers. The kiss back was ferocious, possessive like fire and destruction and like it often did it ignited that strange feeling of being acutely alive in this moment, and not just drifting but knowing because of the pain here and now, his heart was pumping and he had survived another day.

He'd killed a man and taunted Jim's enemies and he'd lived. He was still alive. Whether he fucking deserved it or not, he was alive under Jim's hands and Jim's mouth, even if the two of them looked like a fox terrier trying to fuck a greyhound. He started to laugh against Jim's mouth, desperate, groaned when teeth ripped at his lip just as he came. Jim licked his lips afterward, and smiled. "Now that was a fitting end to the day.” He was sated then, he could see that in his expression. A need had been fulfilled.

He let his head rest back on the cold tiles, and then exhaled. Seb hurt all over, Jim seemed content to sprawl on top of his aching body. Seb’s mouth tasted oddly like potting soil now that he was concentrating. 

"Yeah. Yeah it was."

* * *

He sat at the bar for a moment, until Sherlock sidled into the seat that Moran had occupied. He didn't stay long, didn't really want to talk about it just then or look at Sherlock until they walked back home. It wasn't really a conversation for public discussion. Even getting back to Baker Street could not take away that shaken feeling of insecurity.

Had he been set up? Dangled like a tasty bit of bait in a trap? It wouldn't be the first time if he was. And when they got back it was almost as if he couldn't find a way to start the conversation so he rather mutely went to start making a cup of tea.

There was nothing to say except accusations and swears and that wasn't how he wanted to start any conversation. Sherlock seemed to not mind, which almost made it worse. The kettle had time to boil before he heard Sherlock clear his throat. "John."

He was gripping the handle of his mug really hard and didn't realise it. "I didn't make one for you," he said finally.

He had been so goddamn relieved that Sherlock had been alive to start with but now it had all become tangled.

"Yes, I see that." He gave John another moment of quiet. "I didn't expect that."

"What, that I didn't make you a cup of tea?" He was being deliberately obtuse, but it was sometimes the only way he could communicate his own feelings.

"I suspected he was an associate of Moriarty. I was unaware until I saw him the level of association they might share. I never expected Moriarty to actually show himself."

"You never..." John turned to look Sherlock in the eye.. "Oh don't give me that load of bollocks Sherlock. You not know something?"

"It occasionally happens." He took a step backwards, looking sulky now that John had said that. He reached to get his own mug. "One doesn't usually stalk one's associates."

"Yeah, I know it happens," John answered. "But you never admit to it. What's going on? You said 'please' earlier on, and now you are practically admitting you were wrong. That's... that's not normal for you. That's the sort of thing you do when everything is about to go tits up in a big way."

He reached past John to pour himself his own cuppa. "Mycroft mentioned that we've been under surveillance again." Again. Again?

"Oh you're kidding..." That was all they needed. "I wanted to kill the bastard, I so... So nearly tried. I had the opportunity but." Moran would have taken him down, if he was lucky, a millisecond after he made his move.

"I started to move in when I saw that. He thinks you're harmless." After two run-ins with the crazy, he'd rather proved it, hadn't he? "I'm going to leave Lestrade to close up the sniping."

"Yes, but if you'd known, would you have acted differently? I wanted to see how the man acted. Clearly, while I'm sure he was fine as an officer, John, if he's that close to Moriarty there's a high likelihood that his manifest PTSD is underpinned by latent psychosis."

Sometimes dealing with Sherlock was like trying to follow the logic of a cat. "I like to have an idea of whether I'm having drinks with someone likely to kill me arbitrarily," John pointed out. "Well he's more than close. Moriarty was... possessive."

And he recognised the look in Moran's eyes. He saw it often enough in the mirror, and that wasn't just the post-traumatic stress. Still, he thought psychosis was a bit heavy-handed a word for it. "Quite. Sitting on his knee and showing every sign of cocaine use. I never thought you were at risk from Moran. He showed every sign of simply being out for a meal. I suspect that he was as unaware of Moriarty's antics as you were that I was in the room." 

"Oh, great -- he has a flat mate who does what you do to me," John replied, knowing he was sounding brittle and sharp but not really caring. "I'm sure that does wonders for his mental health."

His or Moran's. Bigger, the both of them being used? And both of them with a flatmate watching. Though he supposed Sherlock at least hadn't giggled. "Did you learn anything useful from him?" 

"Define useful." He said sipping his tea. "We spent a lot of time talking about respective housemate. I've picked up bad habits from you. I poked at some difficult spots in his past. The discharge still bothers him."

"Good to be sure of. Anything else of use?" Sherlock didn't sound worried about anything he might've given away. After all, if the man could strap a bomb to him and then threaten to shoot them... 

John tried to think of something Sherlock would not have known, or been able to find out. He would know about the circumstances of Moran's discharge. "He thought I was making a pass at him. Said he was consulting for Adams' defence. Did workup for the yearly gun show and lived off of royalties and friends. Lit up when we talked guns. Didn't like the thought of abandoning a good gun. Moriarty burned all his clothes once."

"Huh." Sherlock pulled a face. "Though given the man's obsession with labelled clothing, I'm not surprised. So, he works little, kills often, and is kept in a comfortable manner by Moriarty."

"Moriarty was..." He hadn't told Sherlock about what had happened at the pool before he turned up. Sherlock hadn’t asked and he had never been sure if he’d even bothered to look after the event. "Disturbing. He seemed somewhat fixated on intimidating me in a ...what he wanted to do to me type way."

“Not just for effect, was it?" It was a strange conversation to be having standing over the kitchen table, so John took a step back towards more comfortable spaces. And Sherlock followed. "What did he tell you, then?"

"Well for a start he started the conversation, suggesting I wanted to sleep with Moran, kept talking how I should play doctor with..." He paused a little. "My own flatmate, and that he was shocked I would hit on something he regarded as his. He said it made him want to do many, many things to me."

"He was high." And that wasn't a good excuse at all. Sherlock plopped down into his usual chair, knees drawn up, and not a dot of tea spilled. "When he had you at the pool, John. What did he do?" What did he seem like. What part of the puzzle was Sherlock missing, he meant.

He looked at Sherlock. "Why don't you tell me Sherlock? You have no trouble telling me everything else." It was a little bit pissy, but he felt he was entitled.

He took another sip of his tea, staring back at John. "I wasn't present for it, and when I arrived at the pool I wasn't concentrating on the evidence. What I saw today was two soldiers, neither of whom wanted to actually be back in London, commiserating over a beer about the shit they have to put up with from their flat mates. I suspect he recognised you from the pool, but despite knowing you were on his employer's target list, still had a lengthy, comradely discussion with you that revealed a few soft points in his armour, including his day job, possibly a cover story, no, very likely a cover story, and very likely the name of a company that smuggles arms for Moriarty, which actually would count as consulting for them so perhaps there's more truth than anyone likes in that idea, as well as the nature of his domestic arrangement."

"Yeah well, Moriarty likes it dangerous okay?"" John said. "And so does Moran."

"And that's the problem with executing a warrantless search of Moran. Moriarty will be there as well. Or rather, neither of them will be there but there will be something explosive on the premises which will take out you, myself, Lestrade, Donav-- well, I wouldn't mind if it got her, but there's no point in senselessly endangering ourselves and *losing*." He drummed his fingers on the armchair. "We need evidence, and to catch the man alone and in the open."

"Mm. And what are the odds on doing that? He doesn't make stupid mistake like that." He said drinking his tea. "He's enjoying himself far too much playing off against you."

"Mmm. I wish I had've known this sooner. There was apparently a perfect opportunity a couple of months ago." Not that he was going to tell John what it was, but that was bog fucking standard, wasn't it? "And he's enjoying himself too much. Still, we can watch and wait."

"What do you mean you wish you'd known about this sooner?" John asked. What opportunity? How had he missed that?

"I mean Mycroft mentioned to me that Moriarty was in custody briefly. It would have been the perfect time to target Moran *if* we had known at the time that Moriarty had a right hand man who was a sniper." Or anyone at all. What sort of crazy fell in with someone like Moriarty, what sort of crazy did Moriarty trust?

"Well. We don't know how long they've been working together." It did cross his mind that Moran might have been staring down the rifle sight at him, flickering that little red spot of light over the explosive strapped to his body.

Sherlock pulled a face, a dubious expression. "I'd say at least two years, given the degree of familiarity we witnessed between them. Though initial inculcation likely didn't take long -- a discharged veteran, ostracised by his family, jobless, used to functioning within a certain level of society and at a particular level of command. Moriarty swans in, perhaps threatens him, perhaps just offers a little kindness. A good meal, a new suit, and a purpose. Put all of it in a pressure cooker of two personalities who tend towards obsessive tendencies and voila. I still suspect at least two years. The unease has burned out."

"Moran didn't like it when Moriarty started stealing my chips," John said. "I think...not jealousy wise but he was too close to a potential threat. He was still assessing everything for threat level. Moriarty didn't seem to care."

"Was he assessing everything for threat level before Moriarty arrived? Was there a shift?" Yes there was a shift. He was casual about himself, but much more overt when Moriarty arrived. John could've taken a beer bottle to the man's head, and he would've reacted more slowly than if John had gone for Moriarty.

That was loyalty, and a weak point.

"Yeah... yeah there was. He looked like he was being protective of Moriarty. Body guarding." John was sure about that. Protective detail... some of the guys in his unit had looked like that around him until he had proven he could handle himself.

"I suspect it was wholly unnecessary." Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at John. "But interesting. So, we either need evidence or we need a situation which would manufacture evidence in a way which would not put us at risk. Or we can simply leave this be."

"I don't think Moriarty will leave it alone... Considering he was said he was pleased I had joined the game so he could play with me," John said tersely.

Sherlock's frown intensified. "I see. That's unfortunate. Then we'll just have to see what we can do." Which meant Sherlock was coming up with a plan. It wasn't very soothing, that Sherlock even needed to stop and think. His cup ended up set aside, and he settled into his chair looking quite blank and thoughtful.

It was probably the mind palace thing. Well he was going to have to do something to defend them both and start carrying his gun and maybe something. Something unexpected, that was the thing. He needed to not be predictable, because he had seen that look in Moriarty's eyes. He was of interest as a pet. Something of Sherlock's that he could mess with.

* * *

Moran was easy to find.

John supposed he should've been disturbed, but the man was easy to find with the few hints he'd given. He wasn't going to be bait this time, he was just looking to see if he could come to a peace with the man, if, soldier to soldier they could negotiate a truce. Or, catch him out. Moran seemed like he could be reasoned with. When Sherlock and Moriarty started off, people died, places blew up, chaos all over. They didn't need that, no one needed that.

So best to see if Moriarty’s… whatever, partner could pull him back from the brink.

So, he went around to the arms place, loitering and waiting until he saw the man come out of the front door, walking at an easy pace while he buttoned up a freakishly expensive looking coat. There wasn't much question that Moriarty kept him well clothed, but he wasn't sure under what circumstances a Colonel was comfortable being a kept man. He rather liked being his own person, in spite of his association with Sherlock.

"Colonel Moran?" He stepped out to match his pace. "Could I have a moment?" He smiled.

The sideways look was strangely vacant of expression, and then he reached into his coat pocket. For a moment, John felt his heart stop, but his hand came out with just a packet of cigarettes, and all of Moran’s expressions started to show again. It was bizarre. "Sure."

"I just wanted to talk to you about Moriarty and Sherlock," he said. "The two of them meeting is a disaster waiting to happen."

"Is it?" He kept walking, slowing just a little while he lit a cigarette. "I don't think there's anything we can do to stop it."

"This doesn't need to happen. You can't want them to do this," John replied.

"I've never met anyone like Jim." He inhaled with the end lit, and snapped his lighter shut. "Never. I don't give a fuck about you, Holmes, anyone. Look, you can't change anything." 

"Don't give me that crap," John said. "You're the only one that can sway him. Maybe just a little but you can."

He inhaled, and lowered the cigarette, holding it loosely in his hand. And stopped walking, so John stopped. "What do you think will happen?"

"People will die, innocent people. Civilians. Not for causes or gain but because they are bored and the stakes get higher and higher each time," John said. "Moriarty is out of control. What happens when he really loses it?"

"Jim's always been out of control." He took another drag, looking over his shoulder in a casual way. "We're boring. We're or-din-ary people.” That was singsong, mimicry so close to the way Moriarty sounded that John felt his spine tense. “The whole world bores him, and no one can keep up with him except Holmes."

"Yeah well, we're collateral damage maybe... but seriously, you know how this will end up. One or both of them are going to die. Do you want that? Don't tell me he doesn't get so reckless with his intelligence sometimes that he gets stupid."

It got him a sharp laugh, and Moran looked down to the sidewalk they were standing on. "He'll do anything to not be bored. Anything. He promised your friend he'd burn the heart out of him." He took another drag. "It's coming, and I can't stop him from that."

"You don't get it do you?" John felt frustrated. "Sherlock is as good at this as Moriarty. The odds are even that Moriarty will die. He is not infallible." Privately, he thought Sherlock could win because he knew he wasn't infallible.

"No, I get it." He cocked an eyebrow at John. "I get it. One day, he's going to get bored for five seconds too long, pick up my rifle and put it in his mouth, and splatter himself all over the ceiling. Because he could. And I don't know what I'll do, when he does that. But until that happens, I'm going to do exactly what he says, because I enjoy watching things burn. I can't protect him from himself."

John looked at him in the eye and shook his head. "He'll burn you, and you know it." He said. "If he loses you he'll go out of control. Completely." 

That wouldn't happen with Sherlock.

"I'm loyal to a fault. I won't be going anywhere, if you consider that any measure of safety. And I wouldn't." Moran was holding his gaze, watching him intently, as if he could read anything useful off of him the way Sherlock and Jim deconstructed people. 

"Just..." John shrugged. "Thought I would, you know, extend some courtesy to you. As one ex-soldier to another."

"And I appreciate it. But I know Jim and I are on a train track that goes off the rails someday. And so're you. Sherlock isn't ever going to..." He gestured vaguely with the cigarette. "He's always going to be exactly what he is now. And that's going to get him killed, just as sure as Jim'll die. And it's going to hurt."

It would but John was pretty sure he would be there if it happened, close enough to try and stop it. "Assuming I'm not there with him yeah. I get that, it's just..." He wanted to stop this before it started.

"You don't want it to happen. I understand that." He took another hard drag from his cigarette. "I don't want it to happen. Hell, if I had my way, we'd be doing nothing but robbing banks and blowing shit up for hire."

"Well good luck with that ambition," John replied. He wasn't going to get anywhere like this. "Okay. Well I guess there is nothing to change your mind."

"You still don't understand. There's no deterring Jim from this obsession. Nothing. He'll see it through to the end. I'm sorry that you're going to lose your friend. Go on home, before you draw any more attention to yourself, and good luck."

Like hell he was going to lose Sherlock. Like hell. If it came down to Sherlock or Moriarty he'd have to take out Moran to make sure it was Moriarty that went down, he would. It might seem ridiculous to consider but that was the only think he could do. That and walk away.

Walk away, and try to decide how to kill a sniper.

* * *

He'd had too much time on his hands by the time he got around to ringing the bell at 221B, leaning on the buzzer hard. His back was hurting again, but that'd been a side job. The only thing was that he was all stress and maintaining while Jim carefully built the new him, the next story, the last step. It was kind of beautiful, but he had to go and double-check that all the other usual strings were being pulled. It kept his mind running, kept him from thinking too hard about the consequences he felt coming down, could taste in the air like ozone waiting for a spark.

Still, for all his involvement, he had felt he owed John Watson something. How had he put it? A courtesy, one soldier to another. It was a different code to the one Jim used but it was hardwired and tempered with blood, fire and bullets.

It was something he needed to do, to give the other man a fighting chance to save his life as he knew it. Watson had made something of himself, had sort of moved past the war as much as it was possible, and he deserved it. So, he waited, hoping that he was in without Holmes being in.

"Oh hello dear," Mrs. Hudson of course. There was a picture of her on his target board. "Let me guess, you are here to see Sherlock?"

"I'm here for John, actually. We served in the same unit during the war. Is he in?" Polite excuse without giving his name. Jim would've been proud of him.

"Oh, he is. He's just got back. John!" She called up the stairs in a surprisingly loud voice. "You've got a visitor! Go on up dear."

It was almost enough to deafen a man, particularly since he was accustomed to wearing earpro when he was firing off guns. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." And then he started up the stairs. Let it seem like John had mentioned her before. Let it seem like everything was normal and neat. It was all too easy to get close to them, to...

Or not. John answered the door, and his hand was just a little off out of sight; Seb was willing to bet there was a gun in it. "Colonel Moran?" He didn't look shocked. "Great, two in one day."

Yeah, two in one day. He managed a smirk. "Oh, I missed Jim? Do you have a moment? I want to talk to you alone."

"No, not Jim, but if he turns up I'm out of biscuits to go with the tea," John said. "Come in, try not to kill anyone. I'd appreciate it."

"Shouldn't be a problem. If I wanted to kill you, I'd be across the street." He offered it cordially enough, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I thought you deserved a warning."

"About Moriarty? I would have thought that was obvious considering the way he popped up out of nowhere. Tea or coffee?"

"Tea." That was almost polite of him, so Seb stood back a bit. "He's preparing to jump off the rails. I've given it my best, but he wants Sherlock ruined."

"More so than usual?" John asked with a frown as he poured out tea. "Have a seat."

John seemed to have his seat, cardigan thrown over it, so Seb sat across, stiff and polite and taking the whole place in carefully. It was a good opportunity, and not bad as far as flats went. Maybe had two bathrooms, even. Nearly posh, except for the clutter and the bullet holes in the wall. "Thank you, and yes. More so than usual. Sherlock’s going to die."

"No, he's not," John said automatically. "Because if it was just about killing him, he'd be dead wouldn't he? I read about your record. If it's a game, Sherlock could win. Or they could both lose."

"That's right. But he's going to *ruin* Sherlock. He's going to make him feel every step and every moment, and he might ruin himself in the process. He doesn't care." Seb took a sip of the tea, just to taste. If it was poison, well, bottoms up. Hell, he was probably immune to most poisons from getting slipped it in small amounts often enough. And it wasn't. The doc wasn't that sort.

John looked at him. "Great. Great, what he's jealous? Jealous of Sherlock. His success. It's all very...school playground and people are going to get killed over it," John said looking like he was holding on to his cup with dear life.

"No." He felt the edge of his mouth curl up a little. "No. Jim... Jim wrote a book when he was 18. On the physics of asteroids. It's pure mathematics, four hundred and some pages of proofs. It's all perfect, beautiful. I've read it twice and I still don't comprehend a fifth of it. He thinks he's found someone as unbelievably brilliant as he is. And he wants to see if Sherlock can best him."

"Then can't he have a civilized game of chess or something?" John said sounding frustrated. "Why do they have to be so...goddamn clever about everything? Make it all so complex? It doesn't have to be."

"Chess is boring. There aren't enough moves to make. Humans are often unpredictable, and as Jim says, so much fun." He took a sip of his tea, and closed his eyes for a moment. It was sort of like a shura, a temporary peace agreement between two rival sides. All he needed was for dust to blow off of that bookcase to finish the effect. 

"I'd say he was crazy but Sherlock’s right up there with him. He gets bored. So bored. " Moran could tell from John's expression that he knew Sherlock would leap headlong into any game. For a moment he felt bad. He'd handed John Watson an impossible responsibility.

Then again, John had tried to hand him the same and really, it'd been too late. "It's... I sincerely doubt either of us can change this." 

"I am not letting Moriarty kill Sherlock," he said in low voice staring at the floor. "I can't. It's not like I can do anything else."

He understood that feeling. 

"I know. And I don't plan on letting you lot get Jim behind bars again."

"You say you lot as if it was anything to do with me," John replied. "You know damn well it wasn't accidental. It can't have been."

"It was the first move," he admitted. "The trial was advertising. Every underground network in the world saw Jim, being Jim. A little less psychotic than usual, too, which probably helped." Jim hadn't said a word through the ordeal, and all Seb had had to so was find pictures of the jurors, then their names, then their families, then hand it off to one of their coders.

"Yeah and everyone saw Sherlock being Sherlock." John put down his cup. "All part of the plan no doubt."

"Quite." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, taking another look around. "And that was the second move."

"Shit." John rubbed his forehead. "Got any suggestions?" he asked in a level voice.

Got any information of the next step, he meant, so Seb sat there for a moment and took another loitering sip of tea. "I... Leave the country. Go on a long holiday."

"Like that's going to happen. Sherlock won't." John looked like he wanted to punch something.

In some ways he believed John when he said he would be right next to Sherlock if it came down to it. Lucky for him, because then he'd die too. And there wasn't anything else he could say without betraying Jim's confidence. "That'd be about all that would work." He set his cup down. "Well. Good luck."

"Thank you Colonel Moran. Seb," John said getting up as he did. "I appreciate the warning. I'd appreciate it even more if you slipped your partner some diazepam or something, but I guess that's not going to happen."

He held his hand out to John. "I'd be a leather necktie before I could finish the words ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that.’ I do mean it about the vacation. Kidnap him and take him on a cruise or something. Timing is crucial."

John huffed a laugh and shook his head, even as he clasped his hand. "I think the point of no return was probably months ago, wasn't it?"

And it was a shock to realize that John Watson wasn't stupid. 

"Williams was horrified by the plan and wanted to go to the police. He didn't have the stomach." So he shot him. Seb shook John's hand firmly, and stepped away. There still wasn't a damned thing either of them could do about it now, any of it, except he knew what was coming and had decided to stay standing on the train tracks. "I'll see myself off. Thanks for the tea."

"I'd say it was nice to see you but… I'd prefer it if next time you just managed to come without the possibility of certain death," John said wryly.

"I'll give it a shot next time." He gave a vague wave, and headed for the door. There was the piece, a nice Browning right by the door, and he let his eyes linger on it for a moment before he let himself out. John Watson was not a man to be underestimated.


End file.
